Friday, December 13, 2013

Dickinson College, circa not-that-long-ago, CE: Sitting at
the ultimate frisbee table in the cafeteria one afternoon, I got myself into a
hilarious little pickle. A friend of mine accidentally dunked his elbow in a
bowl of jelly, (which was probably sitting there for alternative purposes to
consumption, as we were deservedly loathed by the lunch ladies for food fights
and other tactful mealtime shenanigans). As he reached for a napkin, I grabbed
his wrist and said, “If you can lick that jelly off of your elbow, I’ll make
out with you.” He spent the next eighteen minutes trying to lick his elbow,
which is biologically impossible for most hominids. But most college kids are
still easing their way into humanity – like slow steps into a cold pool of
water. And as I gave him a final smirk and a condescending pat on the shoulder
and turned to leave for class, my departure was stunted by an uproar (and a
mildly strained popping sound). I wheeled around to find him rubbing his
shoulder, but smacking his lips with the remnants of artificial strawberry
stickiness on the tip of his tongue. He was smirking back at me, “I guess I’ll
see you later. I think I’m going to go get a bowl of onions for dessert.”

I won’t bore you with the consequences of our bet;
but the reason I am pausing at this landmark of maturity and tact on Memory
Lane is because I was thinking of how with one great and final heave in the
last seconds of his opportunity, he had accomplished the unaccomplishable. And earlier
this week, I paralleled that feat in the Jerusalem housing market. I have been
sleeping on a mattress on my host’s bedroom floor for three weeks now. He’d
cleared room for me in the closet as if my stay would be longer than just a few
days; but trying to fold myself into a two-dimensional existence to create as
little consequence in my bachelor pad encampment as possible, I left everything
in my suitcase and immediately, optimistically began calling on rental
opportunities.

You can read about my efforts in my previous blog post, but
for now let’s just say it hasn’t exactly been a cake walk. I won’t complain
because the process got me oriented with the city. And my hosts have been so
incredible. I’m staying with three guys in their 20s, all of whom are very
unique, intelligent, kind, and hilarious. We chat about photography and
philosophy courses they’re taking in school (college starts later here because
of the military, so it’s very interesting to be back around academia (sans
cafeteria food fights)). I assume they don’t mind my company because they keep
telling me so in English, but when they speak amongst themselves, I wouldn’t
know if they’re talking about the Queen of England or how females are solely
responsible for deforestation given their exorbitant toilet paper consumption. But
whether they appreciate my company or not, it is high time I find my own space
and graciously return my host’s privacy to him. Which leads me to this week’s
predicament…

I’d looked at a slew of apartments and my hunt had culminated in two options available to me. One was a huge
apartment in a funky part of town about 15 minutes from the city center. My
would-be roommates were three seemingly kind yet dweeby guys from the US and
Australia. As set on this space as I was at first, the more I thought about it,
the more I realized I would be creating a culturally-isolating Anglo bubble for
myself. My alternative was a young, platonic pair that was getting an empty
apartment near the city center. They’d narrowed their candidates down to two;
and by their scheduling error, I went to meet them a second time while they
were still having beers with my competition. The following hour was spent exchanging
pleasantries and oozing as much awesomeness as I could in a double third-wheel
group interview. I knew I’d won the guy over, but when I began to explain my
work for a nonprofit that uses religious pluralism for environmental work, the
girl cut me off after “interfaith” with “Aww, that stuff is bullshit.” Seriously
put off but not seeing any other alternative, I forged ahead through the social
sludge she’d placed at my feet to discover she was an environmental studies
major…with a particular interest in sewage. We bonded over recycling, but I
could tell that I lacked the charm and intrigue of my German neurobiology PhD
student counterpart. I came home still feeling funky and trying to convince
myself that I could make do in that apartment if I got to know her better and
hung out more with the guy. It was like re-trying on a pair of pants that make
your ass look great but the legs are simply too short. But winter is coming and
I desperately needed pants.

Here is where my jelly-makeout analogy comes in: my final
housing heave. I woke up the next morning knowing I had two options, one of
which may not even be an option if Dr. BrainScientist von Shmoozer had anything
to say about it. I reverted to my obsessive scanning of Craigslist, Facebook,
Janglo and a few other apartment sites. I emailed three folks and against my
better judgment of messaging anyone at 8:30am (they start construction out my
window at 7:00am, so I figured what the hell – the world must wake up early
here), I texted Rina.

Rina is Russian. Her husband, Jay, is an American who is
home for an indeterminate number of months taking care of his mother in NYC.
Rina keeps kosher, which I am learning to navigate; but she is not a fan of
keeping Shabbat – which means we can turn on lights and make coffee on
Saturdays. An economist by trade, Rina is currently pursuing a secondary degree
in astrology. Rina was home that morning, so I trekked the two blocks from my
current residence to pop in before work.

Another girl came to look at the apartment while I was
there, and despite my empathy for every home-seeker in this town, I was turned
totally cutthroat. I established a commanding presence, emotionally and
physically standing my ground. Rina excused herself to answer the phone, and I
gave the girl a tour of the home similar to that which I’d just received
myself. When the girl asked to use the bathroom, I took a moment to cover a few
more intimate details like move-in dates and deposits and such. When I took my
leave, Rina offered me an umbrella. I secretly wondered if I could hold it
hostage in exchange for six-months of a home, but I didn’t have to. She invited
me for tea that night, and we made a verbal agreement that I’d move in later
this week. Fast forward to Friday afternoon: I am actually supposed to be
moving in at this moment, but instead I am snowed in and all of the boys are
still snoozing. So instead, I am being patient with the world and satisfactorily
munching on a proverbial, swinging-back-to-the-analogy-at-the-end-of-the-story
slice of toast with strawberry jelly.

Monday, December 9, 2013

It’s not relevant. That’s the translation from Hebrew to
English for telling me over and over again that the apartment isn’t available.
That it’s already taken. That they don’t want English speakers; short-term
renters; secular, non-practicing Jews. I’ve followed my tattered map to nearly
every district in the city proper. I’ve stared into the eyes of thousands of
potential neighbors – some showing only their eyes between a head scarf and a
cloaked bosom, and others averting theirs, snapping the curls at their temples
away from secular distraction to the dutiful attention to God. Some
automatically speak to me in English, sensing a brotherhood of mutual
nationalities. Maybe I smell like America – like dog food and new car and
personal space. Others ask me for directions in Hebrew. I tell them that it’s
not relevant. Older women carrying groceries and angst walk along the market
cobblestones, side-stepped by Israeli soldiers nonchalantly toting a semi-rifle
and smacking their gum. I make my way to another apartment catty-corner from the
market buzz. He informs me that the rent is through August unless they decide
to tear the building down. But bureaucracy slows everything here. So it’s’
probably not relevant. I’m greeted by students who don’t bother to side-sweep
the shopping cart full of trash blocking the door. “It’s not mine. It was here
when I got here, so I don’t want to throw it away,” they explain. “It’s not
relevant.”

Yoga studios and daycare centers offer exorbitantly
overpriced rooms with set quiet hours so as not to disturb their classes.
Orthodox practitioners explain how turning on the lights or stirring instant
coffee defies the stipulations of Yahweh’s law set forth for the holy day of
Sabbath. I sit between fluent Hebrew speakers, smiling and nodding when it
seems appropriate as the host explains the laundry, the utility bills, and that
while she doesn’t really mind having
boys in the house, we should first consider the how such a volatile decision
may impact our moral integrity. It’s not relevant.

The computer repairman – a kind, young guy familiar with the
sideways idioms of the English language – suggests that his secretary is in
need of a roommate. “Actually,” he says when he hangs up the phone with her,
“it’s no longer relevant.”

Wandering back from another apartment, I realize that I
haven’t eaten anything besides a Hanukkah doughnut in the past 19 hours. A
vendor stuffs a falafel , fries, eggplant, cabbage, tomatoes, mango dressing,
salsa, and tahini into a pita. After my third bite of the ethnic ecstasy, I
pause to wonder if this is going to make me sick. I’ve been here before – I
should know better about street food. The tightening of my lower abdomen is an
instinctive reaction to an all-too-familiar trepidation. It turns out to be not
so relevant.

I stare into the eyes of passers-by. They all live
somewhere. How did they get there? I consider asking them how to find a house.

“The heart of the Old City!” the ad reads from Craigslist.
“Just inside of Damascus gate!” For those who are unfamiliar, the Old City is
divided into four quarters, though entirely under Israeli jurisdiction –
Muslim, Christian, Jewish, and Armenian. Damascus gate is in the Muslim
quarter. One of my current hosts served in the Muslim quarter during his time
in the army. “Maybe for you it’s ok because you are American. But I was afraid.
They heard my accent. I mean, it’s safe. But the police – they can’t be
everywhere.”

The renter comes to get me at the gate. “It’s nice, but don’t
expect to get through here during call to prayer. Then I have to just go a
different way.” I can see the Holy Sepulchre from the bedroom. Dome of the
Rock from the balcony. And still, I have this lingering fear, injected by the
racial divides as tangible as the holy, ancient ground I was standing on. I go back at night just to see how it felt. The air seems to shift as I
cross New Gate into the Muslim quarter. Despite the defiant bustle of Friday
night for all those not celebrating Shabbat, the gate is nearly deserted. I
take a breath and walked through, suddenly struck by the stark contrast to the
daylight world of the Old City. Where there had been spices, prayer rugs,
loofas, tapestries, gummy bears, sneakers, falafel, pomegranates, beggars, tour
group flags and slowly rotating meat, there is now absence and silence. Cats,
overpopulating the city since those clever Brits figured out how to solve the
rodent problem, dig into the trash piles left for late-night cleanup. One
moans as it backs away from a gang of three. Two Israeli soldiers, halfway
hidden by the shadows, pass their shift scrolling through their iphone
photos. My chest tightened as three teenagers looked at me with a confused
expression as if to say “what are you doing here?” What am I doing here? How do
you see me? Will you see me differently if I open my mouth? Why do you see me
differently? Is it the same reason I was told to fear you? Because someone told
us to?

I’m not sure who is first to say it, but as I walk back
up to the side of town I’m supposed to stay on, my program directors, the
teenage boys, the Muslim taxi drivers, the Israeli soldiers, all but the
blessedly blind expat already occupying the Bohemian alcove I’d never know
intimately – collectively acknowledge that it’s not relevant.

Thursday, December 5, 2013

I’ve been here for about two weeks now, and I have done a
bit of writing, but most of my attention has been dedicated to finding a home,
which is still where most of my
attention is dedicated. While I feel as though I’m skiing along the surface,
trying to find somewhere safe to sink in, I figured I’d at least throw out a
few preliminary observations of my life thus far: And I apologize - I don't have pictures yet - just gives you something to look forward to ;).

·I’ll start with the housing aspect that I
already mentioned - a somewhat productive yet increasingly unhealthy outlet for
my long-repressed obsessive compulsive disorder, which causes me to spend hours
perusing websites I can’t read for housing I can’t access. Apartment spaces are
being bought up in a foreign market for extremely high prices, which leaves
fewer and fewer options for students and the working class. There are dozens of
independence-craving young people looking at every space. Every open house is
like an interview, or a modern scene from Catcher in the Rye’s matchmaker. As
an English-speaking foreigner who’s only here for a short while, I don’t
exactly come bearing a highly-coveted dowry.

·It was a quite sloshy surprise to discover that
beer comes in two sizes only: 1/3 and 1/2 of a liter.

·Schindler was the only Nazi buried in all of
Israel. He saved over 1200 Jews through his capital enterprises during WWII. I
can see his grave from my office.

·Living with three guys – really not so bad. They
say what they mean; and I have learned to internally repress every natural
bodily function, which will be exceptionally useful if I ever decide to become
a spy.

· Keeping
kosher – also not so bad…until you forget. And then it gets very complicated.

·Apparently there are a wide range of wild
animals in Israel: a couple of tigers, wolves, deer, hyenas, wayward camels
that got sick of the trade routes and decided to hang out in the deserts
instead, and an enormous bunny whose closest relative is the elephant and who
climbs trees sideways like a crab.

·The official food of Hanukkah is the
doughnut. The holiday celebrates a sect of revolutionary Jews known as the
Maccabees taking back the Holy Temple from the Seleucid (Greek) Empire when the
Greeks tried to force them to worship pagan gods. When the Maccabees took back
the temple, they found enough oil to last them one night; but instead it lasted
eight. In celebration of this miracle, the doughnut represents a sponge in
which revelers can actually absorb the holy oil into their own bodies. I’m not
sure what the sprinkles represent.

·Harboring generations of exile and oppression,
and decades of 4 million tourists annually who stop abruptly out of confusion
or reverence of some landmark or another, people here are quite firm about
standing their ground. No one says excuse me or moves out of your way. Ever. In
the name of assimilation and mobility, I have begun to employ my elbows like a
true native. I’d say toddlers and little old ladies beware, but they happen to
be my role models for this technique.

·Everyone knows their history – but unlike my
American history buff comrades from the ultimate frisbee table who debate about
Taft, Roosevelt and Hamilton of the last two centuries, my colleagues here walk
the Old City, pita in hand, and debate whether Paul was a Roman or a Jew, and
when Judaism split from Christianity – arguing about the holy details from
thousands of years past that caused monumental shifts rippling across the
entire world.·The roads, like Mandarin, can only be learned by
memorization. They also change names when they curve or reach an intersection,
and are spelled differently based on various mapmakers’ interpretations of the
phonetic translation. There is no logical layout, and attempts at rational
deduction to orient oneself often literally lead to vertigo.

Map of Jerusalem. The little red box at 2:30 on the map is the Old City - a winding, square-mile walled city within Jerusalem. I got lost there just yesterday, actually. I work at the bottom left-hand corner.

·The Old City (the original, walled city of
Jerusalem) is divided into four quarters: Muslim, Jewish, Christian and
Armenian. They each have their own calls to prayer (to an unaccustomed ear, I’d
describe the Muslim call to prayer as extremely loud and simultaneously eerie
and magnificent), bells, or times and spaces dedicated to prayer - like at the
Western Wall (the base of the Temple Mount where according to religious text,
God gathered the dust to create Adam, and Abraham bound Isaac for sacrifice. Also
the third holiest site in Islam, the Mount has been under Muslim control - ie
with the Dome of the Rock - since the 600s. Jews come to pray at the sacred
base of this Wall, which is the last piece of the Mount that belongs to them).

·The best falafel is in the Muslim quarter not
far from the butcher with goat heads in the window. It (the falafel, not the goat head) comes in a pita pocket with hummus, French fries, tomato salad, and
some sort of spiced salsa and pickled something-or-other. Tahini (pronounced
like “teeny,” interrupted by an impulsive affliction of a sneeze or hairball
caught in the back of your throat), is drizzled on top. Cobblestones in all
quarters of the Old City become VERY slick when it rains.

·Don’t be fooled by the $2.58 falafel, however.
Life in Jerusalem is unG-dly expensive (heh. Sorry – I couldn’t help myself).
Especially if you’re foreign – prices are jacked up everywhere if they think
you come from money (read – are the offspring of an imperial society).

·Real estate agents - if they don’t have a home
for you, they will try to set you up with a home-owning boyfriend.

About Me

My name is Rachel Winner. In January 2012, a woman I truly admire looked me in the eye and called me an adventurer. Not wanting to be disrespectful, I didn’t argue or tell her that I am terrified of kayaking , I think camping is stupid (probably because my friends keep inviting me to go in December) and that I’d rather do laundry than cling to the side of a cliff. She explained that last year, I came to her saying “I’m moving to Mexico. I have no idea what I’m doing and if I can do it, but that’s my plan.” And I did. Nearly a year later, we are having the same conversation about my new writing business in North Carolina, WinnersWords. And yet, here I go. I started this blog when I moved to Mexico, and I’m keeping it up with life lessons, musings and observations – all of which make up my grand adventure.